


savage harvest

by weatheredlaw



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley Has A Cunt, Explicit Sexual Content, Fake Marriage, M/M, Marriage Proposal, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 18:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: “Have we been fools?” Crowley asked.“Theworstkind.”“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley stood and placed his other hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, forcing his gaze up. “I’ve never had more fun than when I’ve been a fool with you.”or: nanny ashteroth and brother francis arrive at the dowlings, married. the decision ripples through the years.





	savage harvest

**Author's Note:**

> some notes: crowley switches between he/she pronouns in this and has a cunt for multiple sex scenes!

“Do you know what I was thinking?” Crowley asked. He took a dark skirt made of thick tweed from the rack and held it aloft.

“That’s quite lovely,” Aziraphale said, and added it to their little basket. “What’s on your mind?”

“The nanny,” Crowley said. “And the gardener.” He looked up. “They should be married.”

Aziraphale raised a brow. “Should they be? What’s the reasoning?”

“My research tells me the Dowlings like to give off the impression of being a Good Christian Family. I’m sure it’d please them to no end to bring up in casual conversation how quaint it is that their nanny and their gardener have been happily married for so many years. Do you like this jacket?”

“It matches the skirt quite well. But what would really be the long term _benefit?_” Aziraphale asked, and placed the skirt in the basket alongside everything else. “Would it give us some sort of _in?_”

Crowley shrugged. “It’d make more sense for us to spend time with the boy together if we were married. No one could really object.”

Aziraphale sighed and pulled a very nice navy blouse from the rack. “Do you like this?”

“Excellent color. Thoughts, angel?”

Aziraphale considered the offer. It wouldn’t be _terrible_ to make play at being married for a bit, and he was certainly comfortable enough with Crowley to pass off their friendship as genuine affection. He _did_, indeed, _feel_ genuine affection for Crowley. He was Aziraphale’s oldest friend.

“It’d set us apart from the other interviewees.”

“There won’t be anyone else,” Crowley said, for the tenth time that day. Aziraphale disliked the implications. “You _really_ do this more than once a year?” Crowley asked, glancing around the shop. Aziraphale preferred vintage fashions, and Nanny Ashtoreth’s personality seemed to demand them. “Or is it just for the yummy little thing behind the counter?”

“I _enjoy_ shopping for myself,” Aziraphale snapped, pulling another jacket from Crowley’s hands and putting it in the basket. “And he isn’t a _thing._ His name is Phillip.”

* * *

While Aziraphale had been very vocal on the way to the Dowlings about how uncertain he was of their plan, he was quite looking forward to seeing how it would all play out.

Of course, once they were hired, there would need to be rules, and as they settled into the little cottage no more than three strides from Warlock’s nursery, Aziraphale set about establishing them.

To start, there was only one bed, and it would be more appropriate for them to share it, though Crowley did offer to miracle them up a set of bunk beds, and was only a little put out when Aziraphale shot the idea down.

“You’d enjoy the top bunk,” was Crowley’s only retort before unpacking Nanny’s things into the closet. “Right, so what’s the issue?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just your more used to sleeping than I am, and I don’t want there to be any trouble—”

“Do you _want_ a second bed?” Crowley asked, closing the closet door with a snap. “Because if that’s what you want, then just _let me_—”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I just...as long as you’re comfortable.”

Crowley sighed. “Angel, I have slept in far worse places for much longer than a night. If it bothers you so much I’ll just build a little wall of pillows between us—”

The suggestion was so completely absurd Aziraphale turned around to start unpacking his tea cups without another word.

* * *

There were three rules when it came to the marriage of one Francis and Eleanor Ashtoreth.

The first was that Francis never called her by her name in front of the staff. The second was that there were never any public displays of affection.

The third was really more for the two of them, but it was important all the same: the marriage wouldn’t change anything between them, for better or for worse.

“Are you amenable to the terms?”

“Quite,” Crowley said. He looked very lovely sitting there as Nanny Ashtoreth, already jotting down a schedule of what he and Warlock were meant to do that day. Aziraphale saw something that looked a lot like _baby music class_, but didn’t ask questions. He sipped his tea and watched Crowley stand, going to the mirror at his vanity to right a few pins and adjust his skirt.

“I’ll see you this afternoon,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley picked up his things.

“Certainly, dear,” Crowley said, in Nanny’s gentle brogue, before leaving Aziraphale alone in the cottage.

Their first night together in the cottage, Crowley set a baby monitor on the bedside table and would occasionally get up to tend to Warlock. Aziraphale listened from the other side as he gently soothed the infant Antichrist, and wondered, briefly, if this had been a mistake.

Crowley had always been very fond of children. He’d never made this a secret.

Aziraphale pushed the thought to the side. No, this was necessary. The marriage bit, perhaps not, but if Crowley was going to spend every night in the nursery anyway, it didn’t really matter, did it?

Of course after two years, Warlock was a toddler, and a vocal one. Aziraphale heard him telling Crowley, quite loudly, that he did _not_ need his Nanny to read to him, in his high pitched babble that largely consisted of him chucking one of his books right at Crowley’s face.

“Quite a strong lad, isn’t he?”

“It’s nothing demonic,” Crowley said, still touching the spot on his forehead where the book had hit him. “He’s just getting older.”

“Terrible twos?”

“Three’s worse,” Crowley muttered. “...So I’ve read.”

Aziraphale raised a brow, watching as Crowley turned on the baby monitor and listened to Warlock’s gentle babble until his seemed to have talked himself asleep.

In bed, Aziraphale rolled over. “Crowley.”

“Hm.”

“Is it going well, you think?”

Crowley shifted and rolled to his side, tucking his arm under his head. His red curls were pulled away from his face into a short braid for sleeping, and he looked very lovely in the dim light of the cottage.

“I think so,” Crowley said quietly. “He really likes your stories.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I caught him stomping on _ants_ yesterday, demanding they obey him.”

Crowley laughed. “I’m afraid I didn’t have to work very hard to teach him that.” He looked at Aziraphale very...softly. That he was so frequently capable of it always surprised Aziraphale. He had met other demons. They were never anything like Crowley.

One of Crowley’s red curls had come undone. Aziraphale reached out and tucked it behind his ear.

“We should be careful,” he said.

“I know.”

“Heaven isn’t aware of our Arrangement. I don’t want _this_ to be the thing that alerts them—”

“I don’t need to be lectured on caution,” Crowley muttered, and turned away.

* * *

They had established a steadfast rule about personal displays of affection.

After their conversation about caution, Crowley seemed, well, _hellbent_ on breaking it.

It started the day of Warlock’s third birthday, when they were sitting on a checkered blanket at the edge of the festivities, enjoying a bottle of wine and the music coming from the little jazz band Mrs. Dowling had hired.

“More cake?” Nanny asked.

Francis smiled and said, “Yes, love, thank you.”

“Of course.” She stood and took his plate, but not before leaning down and pressing her lips to his cheek. “Whatever you need.”

Aziraphale did his best not to look stunned. It wouldn’t do for Nanny Ashtoreth’s _husband_ to seem surprised at having received a kiss from his wife, but given that they’d known the household for three years, more than one passing servant did a double take themselves.

Nanny Ashtoreth did _not_ kiss her husband in public.

In fact, they hardly acknowledged one another at all, outside of Warlock’s garden jaunts. Nanny frequently brought him into the little garden she kept herself, in protest, she often said, of her husband’s less than traditional garden tactics. Francis would come and sit and enjoy tea with them in the afternoon, but they did not hold hands, or kiss one another goodbye, or call one another pet names in front of the staff.

There was a rumor going around that their marriage was one of convenience, but after the birthday party, all that went straight out the window.

* * *

And then, of course, once the rule had been broken the first time, there was no point in not breaking it again. Aziraphale included.

He stooped low one afternoon and kissed Nanny’s temple before excusing himself to finish the pruning. He put his hand over hers at one of their occasional dinners with the kitchen staff without thought, and his wife looked at him with such open fondness he nearly toppled out of his chair.

And she was not exempt. Nanny now often referred to him as her _dear husband_ when talking about him to the staff, who felt, given the gentleness they’d witnessed, it would be alright to ask how the two had met, or what their wedding had been like. They unfortunately had very few photos, she explained, as their last home had been lost in a tragic fire.

“Oh!” Sofia, one of the maids, looked absolutely heart broken. “You don’t have a _single_ photo?”

“Ah, well. We have one, somewhere. Tucked away for safekeeping.”

Sofia smiled. “I should like to see that, ma’am. I’m sure you and Brother Francis made a very lovely couple.” She then inquired about Francis’s “brother” status, questions Nanny was able to wave aside.

On their next day off, they went into London together and had a few portraits taken.

Aziraphale thought Crowley looked exceptionally striking in white.

The rule breaking seemed limited to their _public_ displays of affection, and it certainly was, until one night, while they were enjoying their usual private dinner in the cottage. Crowley stood, took Aziraphale’s empty plate and asked, “Another helping?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Crowley said. “Lydia made this especially for you.” He filled the plate, set it down, and gave Aziraphale the most gentle touch on the shoulder.

It was no cheek kiss. No _hello my dear_. No fond look.

It was _far_ more than that. It was Crowley and Aziraphale, not Mr. and Mrs. Ashtoreth. It was _different_, in every possible way. Aziraphale felt the touch all night, watching Crowley braided his hair, which was growing quite long, actually. Longer than Nanny usually kept it.

“Would you like to make an appointment with my barber?” Aziraphale asked, trying to distract himself.

“You don’t like it long?”

Actually Aziraphale adored Crowley’s long hair. It reminded him of when they met, and he wore it so well. “No,” he said. “It looks lovely. I’m just...thinking of Nanny.”

“Nanny has permission to let her hair down, every so often,” Crowley said, running a hand over his braid.

“I’m glad she feels like she can relax.”

“Francis is a calming presence in her life,” Crowley murmured. “I assume that’s why they married.”

“To complete one another.”

“Yes,” Crowley said idly, looking at his reflection. “Yes, I think so.”

Crowley fell asleep quickly, but Aziraphale lay there for a long while, wishing he could reach out and touch the soft slope of Crowley’s shoulder, or redo the plait in his hair with his own hands.

He would settle for careful touches, though, and conversations about two people who did not exist outside their imagination.

* * *

One afternoon, Aziraphale challenged himself to a bit of a dare.

He had joined Nanny and Warlock in the garden for a short walk, listening as Warlock pointed out the different names of flowers he had learned, the types of birds Francis had pointed out.

“Will I destroy the birds?” Warlock asked.

“You will,” Nanny said.

“But you shouldn’t,” Francis countered.

“And the plants?” Warlock asked. “Will I destroy the plants?”

“Every last one,” Nanny answered.

“Except for hers,” Francis said, and Nanny looked at him very sharply. Francis only smiled and, thinking he might see how far he could push his luck, reached down and slid his hand into hers.

“I thought all the plants,” Warlock said.

“Every last one,” Nanny said softly, allowing Francis to lace their fingers together.

Warlock huffed and collapsed into the grass. “I’m _exhausted_,” he said. He looked up. “Did I use that word right, Nanny?”

“Yes,” she said. “You used it perfectly.”

“Carry me back,” Warlock demanded.

“Of course, dear.” She leaned over and kissed Francis’s cheek. “I’ll see you at home later,” she said, and let go of his hand.

Her words were filled with promise, and Aziraphale didn’t get any of Francis’s usual afternoon tasks done at all.

* * *

“Angel,” Crowley said, sitting at the vanity. “Can you get these buttons for me?”

Aziraphale, in his overstuffed armchair, looked up from his book with a start. “Buttons?”

“On this dress. They’re being difficult.”

“Are they?” Aziraphale stood and set his book aside. “Let’s look at them.”

Crowley stood as Aziraphale crossed the room, turning to show him his back. Aziraphale reached out and began undoing the vintage buttons that went from the top of the dress down to the waistline.

“These _are_ tricky,” he murmured.

“Your idea,” Crowley said. “Buying all these old clothes.”

“And how many compliments have you received, hm? Daniel in the kitchens has the most terrible crush on you.”

“Daniel in the kitchens is _twenty_.”

“And? You should be flattered.”

“I am,” Crowley said. “Are you finished?”

“Almost.” Aziraphale continued with his task, until he had finished with all the buttons. He reached up, pushing one shoulder of the dress down, exposing Crowley’s freckled skin.

Looking up, he caught their reflection in the vanity mirror, Crowley’s gaze focused on him.

“My dear—”

“Don’t stop,” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale nodded, pressed his lips to Crowley’s bare shoulder. He left a trail of kisses toward the nape of his neck, brushing aside the auburn curls before gently nudging the other shoulder of the dress aside.

Crowley turned, and they were kissing. They were kissing.

_They were kissing._

Aziraphale moaned, gathering Crowley in his arms, just as Crowley wound one hand in Aziraphale’s hair to hold him steady.

“_Crowley_.”

“Don’t.” Speaking required they stop. Aziraphale understood the need to continue, so he put his mouth to better use, kissing Crowley with increased fervor, pushing him back toward their bed.

Aziraphale kissed him expansively, indulgently, until he felt like they would simply cease to exist as two, writhing on the sheets as one.

Crowley reached down to undo Aziraphale’s trousers. It was only when he has one hand wrapped around Aziraphale’s cock that either of them felt the need to pause.

Rule three — _this changes nothing_ — was in serious danger of being broken. Shattered. Destroyed beyond recognition.

Aziraphale nodded.

_Break it_, he thought.

_Break me._

Crowley did not disappoint.

Clever tongues must have meant clever hands. Crowley’s long, slender fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s length, stroking carefully. Tenderly.

Aziraphale kept himself lifted off of Crowley just enough to give him room, but the effort was going to kill him, he knew it. He longed to hike Crowley’s dress over his hips, bury his cock inside whatever Crowley had made an effort to give himself for this particular venture. The thought had never really occurred to him before now, but Aziraphale was suddenly aching to know.

Crowley, meanwhile, started working at Aziraphale with more fervor, and it pulled Aziraphale out of his fantasy and back into the moment. Crowley was trying to satisfy him, trying to bring him to a beautiful finish, and Aziraphale was only too happy to comply. He began to thrust into Crowley’s hand, eagerly chasing that feeling. It had been so long, and he had been so good these last four years, and even the ones before.

Crowley was always gorgeous, no matter what he wore, no matter what form he took. Demon or not he was _beauty_, and Aziraphale was duty bound to appreciate beauty wherever he saw it.

That he had felt love, when Crowley stood near him, had to of course be a coincidence. Residual love from nearby humans, or simply from his own angelic essence.

Looking down at Crowley’s open expression of adoration, of fondness and _joy_ — he realized that he could not have been more wrong.

“Will you come for me?” Crowley asked. “Is this enough?”

_Am I enough? _

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “It’s...you. You are _more_ than enough for me.”

“Then come,” Crowley pleaded. “Come, and show me.”

Aziraphale nodded, thrust a few more times as Crowley stroked him hard and slow, and came with a groan. He shuddered and nearly collapsed, but kept himself up on trembling arms, breathing heavy and staring down.

Crowley slid his hand over Aziraphale’s softening cock a few more times, making him shiver.

“Lovely,” he said, reaching up with his free hand to brush damp curls from Aziraphale’s forehead.

Aziraphale looked down. “I think I’ve ruined your dress.”

Crowley laughed. “It’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Aziraphale laughed with him. “Let me take it off then,” he said. “And see what’s underneath.”

Crowley hesitated, then nodded as Aziraphale pulled down the dress and the black satin underwear and looked to see —

A cunt. A slick,_ beautiful_ cunt that fluttered against Aziraphale’s fingers as he stroked it reverently, wanting Crowley to know how much he loved it before he’d even had a taste.

Crowley looked uncertain, saying little things like _It’s only there sometimes. I wasn’t even thinking. I hadn’t expected_ —

“May I?” Aziraphale asked. He looked up to see Crowley unhooking the black bra that matched the underwear and tossing it aside.

“_Yes_,” he said, hitting the _s_ a little hard as he reached up to cup one of his own breasts, tweaking the nipple.

Aziraphale didn’t have experience with this. He wasn’t sure how to navigate the valley between Crowley’s folds, or which places he should touch to give him the most pleasure.

He pulled back as one of Crowley’s hands slid down in front of him, parting the folds of his cunt and stroking there, drawing up to circle his clit. He was _showing_ Aziraphale what he liked.

Aziraphale was a quick study. He pressed his tongue to Crowley’s cunt, dragging it up the slit. Crowley arched into the motion, and Aziraphale did it again and again, pressing harder with every pass of his tongue. He grasped Crowley’s legs in either hand and pulled them over his shoulders, before absolutely burying his mouth against him.

“_Angel_—” Crowley’s hand flew to Aziraphale’s hair, tugging desperately. “Aziraphale, _Aziraphale_, just like that, oh _fuck_—”

Aziraphale brought one hand up to Crowley’s abdomen, holding him down, while the other he brought to his cunt. With his tongue focused on his clit, Aziraphale took two fingers and slid them inside, groaning as he felt Crowley clench around him.

Every part of Aziraphale was rolling into the motions of eating Crowley out. He felt his hips undulating below him, felt his muscles shifting with every pass of his tongue over Crowley’s swollen clit, and he moaned in response each time Crowley begged for more.

Aziraphale gave him more. He gave him more and more, more fingers and more of his tongue and just _more_. He wanted to give Crowley every single thing he asked for, if only because he was _asking._

Crowley came with a _wail_, his back arching off the bed as he pulled Aziraphale’s hair and twisted his other hand in the bed sheets.

Aziraphale drew out his fingers, pulled back, and lowered Crowley’s legs from his shoulders. On his knees by the bedside, he looked up as Crowley moved to the edge, reaching down with both hands to lift Aziraphale’s gaze to his own before kissing him deeply, tongue sweeping inside Aziraphale’s mouth, seeking out the last bit of lemon curd from the bottom of the bowl, licking vanilla ice cream that had melted down the back of his hand.

Aziraphale was being consumed, and he had no plans to stop it.

* * *

“Harder,” Crowley pleaded, rocking back on his hands and knees. “_Harder._”

Aziraphale’s hips _slammed_ into Crowley’s, and he cried out beneath him, gripping the sheets and sobbing into the pillow.

Aziraphale kept moving, chasing his pleasure, climbing up the mountain of Crowley’s own climax, which had happened again and again already. He was wrung out, a shivering, aching mess, and _Aziraphale_ had done that. Aziraphale had brought him to that edge again and again, filling that gorgeous cunt with his cock over and over.

“You’re never going to come,” Crowley managed. “Are you?”

“When I’m good and ready.”

“Fucking _monster_,” Crowley said, laughing until Aziraphale struck him _deep_, and the noise broke against the edges of another cry. “Oh, _fuck. _Fuck me, angel. _Fuck_ me.”

“I’m certainly giving it my best go.”

Crowley rocked again into Aziraphale’s thrusts, trying to get more. “I want you in the garden,” he said. “I want you to lay me out and fuck me under the _fucking_ moon, oh _fuck_. Aziraphale, _Aziraphale_.” He was babbling, now. Babbling about grass and the stars and how _much_ he wanted it all, wanted everything.

They had taken rule three and absolutely decimated it, and all its implications.

Everything was different, now. Absolutely everything had changed. Aziraphale wanted to take Crowley under the moon, too. He wanted to lay out and watch him riding his cock above him, see what the moonlight did to his hair.

“You have a gorgeous cunt,” he crooned. “So beautiful and _good_ for me.” Aziraphale leaned over Crowley’s back and kissed his neck. “I bet you have such a pretty cock, too,” he said. “When you want one.”

Crowley looked over his shoulder as Aziraphale pulled back. “I could have one. If you wanted it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Another time,” he said, and pressed his hand flat on Crowley’s back as he began to _pound_ him, fucking into his cunt over and over, finally allowing himself to chase his own climax. “You feel incredible. I wish you could feel what I do, I wish you knew what you felt like.”

“Angel _please_.”

“Can you come once more for me? I’m sure you could.”

“I can, _I can._”

“Then come,” Aziraphale said. He felt Crowley making frantic circles around his clit, could feel the tight clench of muscle as he cried out. “Beautiful. _So _beautiful. Are you ready?”

“Yes, _fuck_, yes, _just_—”

Aziraphale slammed into him, filling his cunt with a low groan. There was a moment where Aziraphale wasn’t sure that they’d be parted, that they might eventually become that singular creature.

But Crowley collapsed beneath him and Aziraphale pulled out with a wet sound, already missing him.

Crowley moved into the space of Aziraphale’s arms right away, sighing contentedly. “Broke the rules,” he muttered. “Broke most of them.”

“Except the first.”

“Well, that one’s easy. But the other two—” He made a noise like a bomb dropping, hand gestures and sound effects included. “Destroyed. Demolished. _Decimated_—”

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss.

* * *

Just after Warlock’s fifth birthday, Aziraphale made an unfortunate mistake.

He had watched, with growing trepidation, as Crowley became increasingly attached to the boy, and the boy to him. Warlock more often than not was jealous that Aziraphale spent any time with them at all, and found himself being ordered by a rather demanding child to just leave both of them alone, or perhaps leave and never come back.

“Francis can’t leave,” Nanny explained. “He’s my husband.”

“You don’t _need_ a husband,” Warlock said. “You’re _my_ nanny.”

Nanny sighed and kissed his forehead. “Well Brother Francis and I have been married a very long time.”

“So?”

“_So._ I love him,” she said. “And I couldn’t live without him.”

Aziraphale was not so far away when he heard this, and felt something like a _shock_ go through him. He then immediately felt _very_ stupid.

How could he have missed it? How could he have missed his _own_ love, billowing up like thunderheads in his chest, carrying him forward through the last several decades. He had loved Crowley for years, but he was suddenly aware that Crowley’s love for him was much more palpable, and far more ancient.

Aziraphale felt like a fool, making love to him so many nights over the last year, speaking his name like a prayer, letting Crowley kneel at his feet, taking his cock like an offering.

“But I love you _more_ than Francis does,” Warlock said.

He heard Nanny sigh. “Yes,” she said. “Yes I know.”

That night in the cottage, Aziraphale watched Crowley getting ready for bed and said, “Perhaps we should think about leaving soon.”

Crowley turned to him sharply. “What?”

“We could have someone else come and finish up the last six years. Wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Could get back to our old lives.”

“Our _old_ lives,” Crowley said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Go _back._”

“Well, _yes_,” Aziraphale said, moving toward him.

Crowley raised a brow. “The end of the world is coming,” he said.

Aziraphale paused. “...Yes,” he said. “Yes it is.”

Oh how _easily_ he’d forgotten. How simple it was to pretend that they were just...that they were _only_ —

“Back to our old selves, is what you _mean_,” Crowley said.

“...Something like that.”

Crowley’s hand was resting right there, and Aziraphale covered it with his own. To his surprise, Crowley _didn’t_ pull away.

“I think we...we may have gotten a bit carried away.”

There were several moments of silence. Aziraphale thought he was going to have to argue this, or debate the point a bit further. But, instead:

“I’m sure we did,” Crowley murmured.

He turned his hand over and held Aziraphale’s very carefully, until neither of them could stand it, and they went to bed.

* * *

Their first lunch together after leaving the Dowling’s wasn’t as terrible as Aziraphale thought it might be. Crowley was keeping an eye on the tutors they had sent to look after Warlock, and Aziraphale was translating those reports into something for Heaven.

“Do they even care?” Crowley asked.

“What does that mean?”

“I _mean_, does Heaven really care that you’ve tried to, you know, angel-fy the Antichrist?”

Aziraphale considered lying. He considered saying that Heaven appreciated all the work Aziraphale did as much as Hell appreciated the work Crowley just took credit for doing. He wanted to say all that very much.

“I hardly think that matters,” he said, instead.

Crowley said nothing. Sipped his wine and watched customers shuffle through the restaurant.

Aziraphale wondered what he was thinking. What he _thought_ of, when he was alone.

Aziraphale thought of him. Thought of their nights in the cottage. They had never made love outside, but Aziraphale often imagined it. Pictured them naked in the soft grass, Crowley’s hips rising up to meet him while Aziraphale filled him with his cock, whispered his name and brought him to the edge just like he used to.

“Angel.”

“Hm?”

“I asked if you were finished.”

Aziraphale looked down. He’d been scraping his plate for two minutes, until there was nothing left.

_No_, he wanted to say. _I’m not._

_And I’m not sure I ever will be._

* * *

Crowley’s flat was very quiet. Aziraphale felt more than out of place among the slate greys and bursts of red and green. He sat on the edge of the sofa as Crowley tidied things up.

“Angel,” he said. “I’m _beat._”

“Hm?” Aziraphale looked up. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sure you are. Frankly I...I think that _I_—”

“Aziraphale.” He looked up, and Crowley was reaching out with one hand to help him from the sofa. “You can sleep now. It’s alright.”

The words freed the tension from his shoulders and cut through the haze. Aziraphale took his hand and stood. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when we’ve swapped in the morning,” Crowley said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Aziraphale sighed, once he was resting and facing Crowley. It was such a lovely, _familiar_ sensation. He desperately wished there were curls for him to tuck back, a braid for him to touch, a hand for him to kiss.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Crowley was already asleep.

_Well_, he thought. _Better this way._

* * *

“Are you happy with the bookstore?” Crowley asked, flicking another pea into the pond.

“Oh, very. Would you...well, you saw it already, you know what Adam did.”

“Nonsense. Let’s have another look.” He tossed his last handful of peas into the water. “Lift home?” he asked, and there was a smile, a very _good_ smile, that Aziraphale knew well. He wanted to reach out and touch, bring that smile to his mouth and lick at it, make it his.

He followed Crowley to the car, instead, and they sat in a very comfortable silence all the way to the bookshop. Every so often, Aziraphale glanced over, admired Crowley’s profile in the afternoon sun streaming through the window.

“Something on my face, angel?”

“Not at all, dear.”

_I only want to do more than remember. I want to keep and I want to covet. If Heaven is through with me, then I will go back to never being through with you._

In the shop, Crowley wandered around like he used to, as if the place was half his. Aziraphale reasoned that it sort of was, as he pulled out the glasses and a bottle of wine.

“Is there a moratorium on celebrating?” Crowley asked, taking his glass.

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale took his own and settled into a chair as Crowley fell onto the sofa across from him. “I’m sure I could find a reason to celebrate for a _few _years.”

“You could celebrate anything,” Crowley muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it was,” Crowley said, leaning back. He took a long drink from his glass. “I wonder if he’s alright,” he said quietly.

Aziraphale wanted to ask _who?_ He wanted to play the fool.

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“They took him to Megiddo,” Crowley muttered. “No one hurt him, but I was worried.”

“You wouldn’t have let them.”

“How could I have stopped it?” Crowley snapped. “I was here, I was trying to talk you into leaving with me, I was _being_ a _coward_—”

“Enough,” Aziraphale said, leaning forward. “You can’t change any of that, you can’t effect—”

“Oh, _bollocks_, you know it could have been different, you just don’t want to admit _any _of that.”

“Crowley, _please_, I don’t want to fight about this.”

“Should we fight about something else, then?” Crowley took another drink. “Fight over another thermos of holy water? Fight about Nanny and Francis, maybe?”

Aziraphale sighed. “I would rather not fight at all.”

“Yes, mister _holier than thou_ would rather we just put the past behind us, pretend it all never happened, move forward with a _stiff_ upper lip.” He took an angry sip of his wine. “You’re so _bloody_ English sometimes.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale felt _wrecked_. He felt despondent on a rocky coast, calling for help. “You must know I don’t...that I would never just _forget_ about it. About _them._”

Crowley was staring at the floor. “Didn’t you, though?”

“He loved you so much, Warlock did. And you were so fond of him—”

“Loved,” Crowley snapped. “I _loved_ him.” He looked up now, furious. “I _am_ capable of it, you know.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, dear. I’m very aware.”

Crowley was trying to stay angry. He was trying _desperately_, but Aziraphale could see him breaking as easily as he could feel it in himself.

“Then why?” Crowley asked. “Why did you end them? Why did you end us?”

“It was time, and what were we supposed to do? Go on, pretending to be married?”

“You’re so thick,” Crowley muttered.

“Maybe less so than you think, but...still.” Aziraphale leaned back again. “If you must know, the only coward between us is me. I was…afraid. Afraid of what heaven might do, afraid of what might happen to you, to _us_.”

“To _us_.”

“We promised that nothing would change, and I only thought…I thought if we just went back to the way it was, then I wouldn’t have to think about all the years we spent _not_ being together.”

“We’ve always been together.”

“Yes, but..._together_, Crowley.” He sighed. “You must know how long I’ve loved you.”

Crowley was very quiet. Very still. “...No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Not at all?”

“When we...when it was _them_, I felt it. I thought I could, anyway. But you ended it and you were right, we needed to move on, I just…” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you know how long I have loved _you_, angel?”

“Longer than I could imagine.”

“Longer than you could _ever_ imagine.”

Aziraphale reached out, and Crowley took his hand.

“Have we been fools?” Crowley asked.

“The _worst _kind.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley stood and placed his other hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, forcing his gaze up. “I’ve never had more fun than when I’ve been a fool with you.”

* * *

They went to bed so easy, Aziraphale was furious they hadn’t just kept doing it. He already knew the most sensitive parts of Crowley, the places on his back where he liked to be kissed, or just how _hard_ he liked to have his hair pulled. And Crowley knew _him_. Crowley knew him better than anyone, and they were in love.

They were _in love._

_Decadence_, was all Aziraphale could think. Dark chocolate mousse and cream over berries and box seats at the opera and train rides to _Paris_.

He watched his cock slide into the wet heat of Crowley’s mouth and moaned. What a gift. What a relief. He put a hand on either side of Crowley’s face and kept his head steady.

“Let me fuck your mouth?”

Crowley nodded.

“Wonderful.” Aziraphale eased his cock further in, moving Crowley’s head in a steady rhythm. He sat on the edge of the bed as Crowley knelt and felt it when he started moving his own hips. “I wonder what you’ve got for me. Will I get to do this for you? Or will it be like it was?” Crowley couldn’t answer. Aziraphale sighed. “Should I come now? Is that how you want it?”

Crowley nodded again.

Aziraphale sighed. “I can do that for you,” he said, and let go of Crowley’s head so he could take control of the last few seconds. Aziraphale let his head fall back and came with a groan.

He looked down to see Crowley swallowing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “_Fuck_, angel.”

“Alright then?”

“Bloody monster is what you are. C’mere.” Crowley rose and kissed him, urging him further into bed. They stayed like that for some time, until Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s ear and said in a familiar voice, “_Dear_ husband.”

“Oh fuck.”

“That pleases you then?”

“Crowley—”

“Is that what I am to you? Here? Like this?”

Aziraphale groaned, tried to kiss him again, but Crowley pulled away. He shivered. “_Wife._”

“Better.”

“And how should I have you?” Crowley straddled his waist and glanced down with a _wicked_ smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think it would be the other way around?”

“My dear…”

“I could have whatever you like.” He took Aziraphale’s hand and slid it between his legs. “But I think I want you in my cunt. I want to ride you until you can’t stand it. I want you to come for me, angel. Over and over and _over_.”

“_Please._”

“Get out of those clothes,” Crowley ordered, “so I can see you better.”

“Yes, dear. _Yes_, whatever you need.” Aziraphale sat up and pulled at his sweater before growing flustered and magicking the rest away. Crowley had moved off the bed and stood, carefully removing his clothes and laying them over the back of a chair. He pulled his snake belt through the loops of his jeans and the sound made Aziraphale hard again.

When Crowley was naked, he came back to the bed and straddled Aziraphale’s waist again, taking his hand and touching it to the cunt he had made specifically for this. “Would you like to taste?”

“Oh, you know I would.”Aziraphale moved to sit up, but Crowley pushed him down, and began moving closer. “My dear wife—”

“Stay very still,” Crowley said, before he lowered his cunt onto Aziraphale’s mouth.

The taste of him slid over Aziraphale’s tongue. He put his hands on Crowley’s hips and felt them roll as Crowley rode his mouth.

“How’s that, angel? How do you like _that _taste?” Aziraphale moaned in response. “I thought you might.” He kept going, pressing down harder, making noises of encouragement when Aziraphale began to fuck him slowly with his tongue. Crowley reached down and began to circle his clit. “How many times am I going to come?” With one hand pressed flat to the wall behind the bed, Crowley rode out his orgasm and Aziraphale dug his fingers in, holding him close for as long as Crowley could take it.

Crowley pulled back with a whine and leaned down to kiss Aziraphale, licking his lips and chin clean.

He reached down and gently touched his cock. “All ready for me?”

“Always.”

Crowley leans back, taking Aziraphale’s cock in hand and teasing his entrance. “You felt incredible in my mouth. You tasted so _good_,” he said, and lowered himself down.

_Oh_, Aziraphale had forgotten about that beautiful tight heat. He had forgotten what Crowley sounded like every time Aziraphale’s cock dragged inside him. He had forgotten the sweet-dark melody of his moans and his pleas and his praises. Crowley’s chest was flush with the effort of fucking him, and Aziraphale wanted to taste it, but he was really in no position to do so.

And that was fine. His _current _position was very good, and with the best view he’d had in a while — Crowley’s heaving chest, the taut line of his neck that led up to a profile Aziraphale wanted to carve into marble. He had no skill as an artist, no talent for anything other than being completely besotted.

He was no good at anything but loving Crowley.

Crowley was moving faster, now. He dropped onto Aziraphale’s cock with _intent_. “Won’t be long,” he said. “Fuck, you’ve got no idea. Used to talk about me, remember? How good I felt around your cock?” Crowley laughed. “You’ve got no _fucking_ idea how good you feel inside me.”

Aziraphale finally sat up, wrapping his arms around Crowley. The angle must have changed something, some way that Aziraphale’s cock felt inside him because Crowley _howled_, grabbing Aziraphale’s face in his hands and kissing him.

“You can fuck me next time,” Aziraphale said. “I want you to.”

“Outside,” Crowley pleaded. “We never did, I always wanted you that way.”

“Did you imagine it?”

“Fuck, _fuck_.”

“Tell me, I need to know. Were you thinking about me?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, all the time. Oh, angel. _Angel_—”

“What happened to husband? What happened to that?”

“Will you be? I’ll be anything of yours, I don’t care what you call me—”

“Wife, husband, I’ll say them all.” Aziraphale kissed him again. “Will you come with me? I’m so close, love. I’m ready.”

“Yes, _yes_, just _please_—”

It was a relief. A stunning one. Aziraphale spilled into him and Crowley clenched tight and they fell backwards into the sheets, a resplendent mess, and did not get up again until they had satisfied one another a dozen more times.

* * *

“How many times, precisely, do you think you’ve imagined _this_?” Aziraphale asked. Soft, cool grass tickled the back of his neck as Crowley thrust slowly into him.

“A thousand. Probably more.”

“I had tried to pretend it’d be overrated,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, _fuck_—” He threw his head back. “Drive the point home then.”

“Fucking outside, angel? How could that be overrated?” Crowley started moving faster, and Aziraphale enjoyed the noise of skin on skin as he was properly fucked. The moonlight _was_ beautiful. Romantic, too. The whole thing would have been except for — “Fuck, I’m going to fill you up.”

“How poetic.”

“Oh? You’d like poetry, then?” Crowley stopped moving, which Aziraphale did _not_ like.

“Don’t—”

“No, no, angel. Let’s really make this romantic for you. I mean besides the babbling brook—” The brook they had chosen to camp by that evening did, indeed, babble in response. “—the light of the full moon, the _candles_ you so _recklessly_ laid about. And the picnic basket, and the _wine_, and the _roses_.” _Now_ he thrust in, with purpose.

Aziraphale moaned. “Y-you’ve forgotten the, ah. The — oh, _fuck_, Crowley — the chocolates.”

“Oh yes,” Crowley said idly, as if he didn’t have his cock buried in Aziraphale’s ass, or his wrists pinned to the blanket. “The _chocolates._ Couldn’t forget those.”

“_Crowley._”

Crowley stopped again, and Aziraphale wanted to scream. “I crave your mouth. Your voice. Your hair.” Aziraphale froze. Crowley took the moment to pull out almost all the way before he thrust, _hard_, back in. “Silent and _starving_, I prowl through the streets.” He leaned down, tracing Aziraphale’s ear with his teeth. “I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

“I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body.”

“I’m—”

“I pace around hungry. Sniffing the twilight.” His thrusts came faster. Aziraphale was closer to the edge. He pleaded for more, for anything, for _harder, faster, please God, please_ —

Crowley pulled back, looked down at him, and said, “_Hunting for you._”

Aziraphale came. The world stopped. He broke.

Crowley kissed him together again.

* * *

“We can’t get married in a church.”

“We could get married by a friend,” Aziraphale suggested. “Here. In the park. Sergeant Shadwell is probably ordained.”

“He’s also otherwise occupied, look will you just _take_ the bloody ring, angel?” Crowley thrust it out for Aziraphale to hold. “For fuck’s—”

“Propose to me,” Aziraphale said, refusing.

“Oh, come off it. We’re in the park.”

“Brother Francis proposed—”

“You did _no _such thing.”

“Ha! In all those stories you told the girls in the kitchens,” Aziraphale said. “You made quite a show of it.”

Crowley pouted. He did a lot of that, Aziraphale thought. He enjoyed getting his way.

“_Fine._” He snatched the ring back, looked at it for a moment, and then got down on one knee. “Aziraphale,” he said. “Angel of the Eastern Gate, holier than thou pain in my—”

“Crowley.”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, _alright._” He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped. Glanced about.

Took off his sunglasses.

“Oh, my dear.”

“Just.” Crowley looked down, then back up. “Aziraphale. There isn’t a single good thing about me except you. Every blessing I’ve ever carried out, I did it in your name, because you asked me to. I healed the sick, I helped blind men see, I lowered the flood waters. I did it for you.

“Because I love you,” he said. “Because I have _always_ loved you. And if you marry me, absolutely nothing about me or you or _us_ is going to change. Rule three, you know.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Rule three.”

“But if you say yes, and you wear this ring, then the only thing that changes is the whole world knows.” He took Aziraphale’s hand. “That you’re mine. And I’m yours.” He sighed. “So. Will you marry me?”

Aziraphale didn’t need a heart, but he felt like his had been grabbed by two hands, shaken vigorously, and shoved back in his chest.

“_Yes_,” was all he managed before he grabbed Crowley and kissed him so hard several passerby sounded shocked. A few more whistled. One could distinctly hear the words, _finally_, from an old woman on a nearby bench.

Crowley pulled back. “That was alright then?”

“I hope you never forget those words,” Aziraphale said. “Because if you don’t say them to me, tonight, while we make love over and over and _over_—”

“The bloody _park_, angel!”

“—then I will divorce you, and I will say them to you myself and do the whole thing over again, so neither of us ever has to go without hearing them.”

Crowley ducked his head, burying it in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck. “I love you,” he mumbled.

“I know. _Believe me_, love. I _know._”

“And you?” Crowley pulled back, and he was grinning. His yellow eyes were bright and bold and Aziraphale adored them, now, more than he had ever. “What would you say back?”

Aziraphale kissed him again. “I love you, too. I love you, I have always loved you.

“And I will _always_ love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> title and lines of poetry from "love sonnet xi" by pablo neruda.
> 
> tumblr @ weatheredlaw


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